Killer Pancake

“Oh, thanks a lot,” Tony said jokingly as I took him by the arm and propelled him out the door and into the hall.

“Come on, you’ve been with her today and we haven’t,” I told him. “Besides, I need to ask you a financial question.”

“You? A financial question?” He looked at my borrowed outfit. “What, coffee futures? You’re talking about a lot of money.”

“What do you know about a company run by someone called Reggie Hotchkiss?”

“You mean Hotchkiss Skin & Hair?” When I nodded, he massaged his mustache with his index finger. “Not much. Why, Goldy? You interested in the stock? I’m not sure they’re publicly owned.”

“I’m interested in the company. Can’t you just find out how they’re doing? I’ll pay you in cookies.”

He snorted again and said he’d see what he could do. He gave another you’ve-got-to-be-kidding assessment of my damp hair and sweatsuit proclaiming the virtues of Pete’s coffee.

Back in the private room, the drabber-than-yesterday’s hospital gown and absence of her usual twinkling barrettes and jewelry made Marla’s depressed visage seem even more washed out than during either of my previous visits.

“Do you … want me to stay?” Julian asked Marla when I returned. He hesitated, perched beside a turquoise chair of molded plastic. “I know you probably need to be with Goldy. I just … wanted to bring you your stuff. And see how you were doing.”

The juxtaposition of needing to see one person and perhaps wanting to see another was not lost on Marla. “Stay,” she said weakly. “I need as many friends as I can get, at this point. And the nurse says I can have longer visits now, anyway.”

“Thirty minutes,” came the calm admonition from the corner.

Marla held out her hand to Julian. “Here I am thinking of myself, and I understand you’ve had the worst news. I’m so sorry about Claire.”

Julian took her hand and looked at it. His shoulders slumped.

“Thanks, Marla. I’m sorry too.”

Eventually he let go of her hand and flopped into the chair. I asked her how she felt now that she’d survived the atherectomy. She told me to lean in close, then whispered that her groin and back were still killing her. Then she told us she’d talked to the private nurse arranged to start when she came home. The nurse would double as a driver, and this seemed to relieve her. I sat in Tony’s place by the window. The ventilation unit blew chilled air out onto my calves. Outside the window, people of all ages in athletic gear walked and jogged around a paved track. They weren’t patients, I wagered, but doctors, nurses, and administrators. In any event, it wasn’t exactly the view I’d want if I’d just had a heart attack while running. I thought I could see Dr. Lyle Gordon lumbering through his laps. If Marla could have seen him, she would have made a joke about it. That was her way. But she was still flat in the bed, and every few minutes her mood seemed to sink a little lower. The three of us sat for a while, saying nothing.

“How’s Arch?” Marla asked finally.

Julian and I fell over each other saying how great Arch was, wearing his Panthers shirt and doing tie-dying, and looking for old Beatles and Herman’s Hermits records.

“I think I have some Eugene McCarthy buttons in my attic,” Marla said feebly.

We all fell silent again, the brief spark in our conversation like a fire gone cold.

“Well, show me what you brought,” Marla tried again.

Julian picked up the bag and delicately unloaded the articles and mail onto the foot of the bed. I picked up the bedclothes and folded them into reasonable clumps before stacking them on the bedstand within Marla’s reach. Marla took the pile of mail from Julian and sorted through it without interest.

“Oh, boy, the doctor’s not going to like this,” she said, holding up a postcard. She read, “From my mother, postmarked Lucerne. ‘Have found a perfectly wonderful couple to hang around with and will be going to their chateau for a month! I’ll write again when I have their address.’” She tossed the postcard on the floor. “So much for Mom coming in to lend a hand.”

“Jeez,” said Julian, “can’t you write to her General Delivery or something?”

“It’s one thing if it’s Bluff, Utah, Big J.,” Marla told him affectionately. “It’s another if it’s the entire country of Switzerland. This couple probably latches on to Americans and brings them to their rented chateau to give them a big pitch and swindle them out of millions of dollars on some stock deal in Mexico. Wouldn’t be the first time for dear Mom. I actually think she enjoys it.”

She stared at another postcard. “I already told good old Lyle Gordon all he needs to know about our family history. I got the ‘you are-going-to-die-if-you-don’t-change-your-ways’ speech.” She gave me a mournful look. “No more goodies from Goldy’s kitchen.” She sighed again and turned her face toward the window. “God, I’m better off dead.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, too quickly. “I’m going to cook all lowfat food for you. And it’ll be so delicious you won’t be able to tell it’s good for you.”